


This is just practice.

by literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte



Category: Everyman HYBRID, EverymanHYBRID
Genre: Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eye Gouging, Gen, Gore, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte/pseuds/literaryFRIVOLOUSneophyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This isn't even the worst I could give you. This is just <i>practice.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	This is just practice.

The scalpel hits bone, and he scraps at their skull, humming. Their body thrashes around on the table, and the wet sounds of his fingers digging around in their head muffle their dull screams of protests and agony.

“You know,” he says, two fingers in their left eye socket and the rest wrapped around the cold, metal scalpel, “this would hurt a lot less if you stopped struggling.”

He thinks he hears ribs cracking. He should probably loosen the straps buckling them down on the table, or they might die of suffocation or internal bleeding – or something else boring and dissatisfying. After all the work he's put into this, he wants something _more._ A bang for his buck.

“Not that I expect you to stop struggling. It's human nature, isn't it?” he laughs.

The teeth came out cleanly, which, for him, means imperfectly. The roots were only a little bloody, didn't even make a nice pool of blood. Their mouth opens and closes, tongue rolling in empty space against soft, bleeding gums, in a way much like a fish out of water.

They gag on their own blood, but he doesn't let them choke on it.

“I know what you're probably thinking.” He slowly pulls their eyeball out of the socket. He presses his thumb into their pupil and lets the sound of their nerves popping register in their pain-raddled brain. 

“Why, why am I doing this? Why you?” He crushes their eyeball in his hand. He takes the scalpel in his free hand and stabs it into the gaping wound, drags it up and down until it hits bone again.

“You don't even know my name, or what I look like. All you know is that I currently look like your sister.” They've been crying for hours now. Their body jolts with each movement; the drugs meant to keep them awake for longer must have finally worn off.

“Well, you just have to ask yourself, why not? Why not you?” he laughs again. “This isn't even the worst I could give you. This is just _practice.”_

He hates these types, hates them with the disdainful hatred of a boot walking over an ant hill. Screaming and crying and running through the woods, right at ol' Stick-in-the-Mud, calling the cops and all that bullshit.

Their legs twitch, like a chicken that keeps running after its head is chopped off.

It's all fun and games, though. He's not one to be a spoil-sport.


End file.
